


The things we shared

by hydriotaphia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: In-Theatre, M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 12:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2191569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydriotaphia/pseuds/hydriotaphia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's an early celebration," Brad says, with only a tiny smile in his voice. "Seeing as we won't be here on November 10th."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The things we shared

Nate stares at the object in Brad's hand before lifting his eyes to Brad's face.

"It's an early celebration," Brad says, with only a tiny smile in his voice. "Seeing as we won't be here on November 10th."

Nate looks back down at the foil packet Brad's holding. "We'll be stateside, Brad. The parties are bigger and better, and the cake is baked the day before, not a decade prior and frozen in a bag."

"Casting aspersions on the illustrious provisioning of the United States Marine Corps, sir?"

"You know what they say. An army marches on its stomach–" Nate begins with a grin.

"Which is why those pussy fuckers are still bringing up the rear," Brad finishes. "Cake, sir?"

The pound cake is far from Nate's favourite, but he breaks off a piece anyway. The vanilla taste is stronger than he remembers, and he closes his eyes briefly. When he gets home, real cake is waiting for him. When he opens his eyes again, Brad is watching with the same off-hand intensity from firefights and strategy meetings.

Brad's eyes drop to Nate's right cheekbone as he says, "It seems right to celebrate here, where it's real."

That's a tell. Brad does it when he's unsure. Looks away from your eyes just a little; never enough to show he's backed down, but just enough to give himself some breathing space.

Nate's hands are the cleanest part of him. He can see the contrast between the dusty white of his fingers and the grime on Brad's wrist when he takes hold. "It feels like nothing will ever be more real," he says and lifts the packet to his mouth, watches Brad watch him take a bite and swallow it dry.

The lump in his throat is undoubtedly cake, but it feels different, feels heavier than food, almost like grief. He wants to drop his head again and eat it out of Brad's fingers, wants to follow Brad's pulse to his wrist, the crook of his elbow, up the muscle of his shoulder and his neck, to his mouth. He licks his lips instead, chasing the last crumbs, and feels Brad's wrist tremble under his hand. Cake crumbs fall between them.

There is no noise, but they each step back as the moment stretches. Brad tips the last of the cake into his mouth and brushes at his lips.

"Thank you, Brad," Nate says quietly.

Brad's half-smile is sweet when he says, "Hoorah, sir."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Good Cookies thread in 2012 and forgot I had it for a while.


End file.
